I sat on my swing early this morning of late night,
feeling the wind lift my hair, caress my face, whisper in my ear.
Watching the upper most branches of
an old oak tree
swaying in the blue moonlight.

A sturdy oak tree,
thick of trunk, its sapling years left far behind,
strong and stately,
yet its uppermost branches swayed, reached, yearned
against the blue of the moon's rays.

I felt a strong connection to that old oak tree,
providing shade and solace to those below,
unwavering but for its upper- most branches,
reaching out for something more,
against the grey night sky.

The moon, as blue as blue can be, wore a halo tonight.
It caressed the futile reachings of the old oak.
All of nature knows its place.
I, alone, have the gall to suspect that old oak
aches for more.

More than the solidity of its existence,
Unable to roam the world at its stately feet,
Hearing the whispers of possible wonders the moon
gently lays upon its soul.
It settles for a gentle breeze to stir its uppermost branches